Closed Doors and Open Windows: Last Rites
by Skybright Daye
Summary: Part Two of the CDAOW series. A completed story in five parts. Four brothers reflect on the legacy of their father; saying goodbye to the past and looking towards the future . . .
1. Updrafts: Michaelangelo

LAST RITES: Part Two of the Closed Doors and Open Windows series (I suggest you read Closed Doors and Open Windows first -- it's here on FF.Net) Thank you to everyone who gave "Closed Doors and Open Windows" such a wonderful reception. Many of you asked for me to continue the idea. Well,you asked for more; you got it!   
  
  
As usual I own nothing. Theoretically the guys (Kevin Eastman and Peter Laird -- may their drawing hands ever be steady!!) who own the characters herein could take me to court and sue me; they would get ::checks pockets:: one paper clip, three gum wrappers and a year-old tootsie roll mini. The song used for this fic is "The Last Song" by Elton John; lyrics generously provided by the TMNT Soundtrack Project (http://www.angelfire.com/va2/tmnt/index.html) It's an awesome site!! Go check it out!! (end of free publicity)  
  
A quick note to JOCELYN MAGUS, AZURE TURTLE and SAILOR VEGETA (if any of ya'll are reading): The three of you were the only ones to review CDAOW before I made an important change to the story, and I thought I'd better let you know about it. In the version you read, April and Casey's daughter was named Alexandra. I originally wanted to give her an artist's name, but couldn't think of one to save my life. Well, about three hours after I uploaded Closed Doors and Open Windows, I was hit by a sudden bolt of inspiration -- and I suddenly thought, "Well, Duh!! Name the kid Monet!" So I went back, changed the name, and uploaded the edited version later that night. So, the upshot of this rather long note is this: The child formerly known as Alexandra is now named Monet! 'Kay?(Sorry for any confusion this may have caused! Monet doesn't really figure in this fic, but she'll be important in later ones.)  
  
As always, please read and review!  
  
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Closed Doors and Open Windows: Last Rites  
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Once, years ago, Casey Jones had called it "The farm that time forgot."   
  
So far, time hadn't remembered it. The same high, dead grasses rattled against each other in the roadside breezes, the same ramshackle barn overlooked the same faded yard, and the same ancient screen door still kept a tenuous hold on the house. Only a few tiny changes indicated the passage of long years -- new chains on the porch swing, a repaired fence in the front yard, a basketball hoop nailed to the barn door. Tiny changes, barely noticeable unless you knew what to look for. But they were tokens -- reminders of the decade that had passed since the farm had last looked on the visitors it now welcomed back . . . .  
  
  
  
******  
Updrafts: Michaelangelo  
******  
  
Michaelangelo sat on the edge of the hayloft, watching the sun make its slow journey downward. Every so often he'd pluck a tuft of ancient, dusty straw from the pile he was sitting on and send it drifting to the ground, following the slow, twisting descent with a kind of detatched sorrow. Funny . . . things always got lighter and slower as they grew older -- even daylight.  
  
  
** Yesterday you came to lift me up   
** As light as straw and brittle as a bird   
** Today I weigh less than a shadow on the wall   
** Just one more whisper of a voice unheard   
  
  
Mikey remembered being a child, a very young child; young enough and light enough that Splinter could still lift him without much effort. He remembered holding his short, chubby arms out to his sensei, waiting to be lifted up onto the rat's shoulders -- and how solid it felt to be there, towering above his brothers, with Splinter's whiskers brushing against his knee. Splinter had always laughed as he swung Mikey upward.  
  
"Look at how big my Michaelangelo is getting!!"  
  
Yeah. Big enough that in the end the roles had reversed, and Mikey had been the one lifting his sensei up. With the passing of time the old rat had grown gray and fragile -- as fragile as one of his teacups. For the past three years Splinter had had to be lifted and carried gingerly from his chair to his bed -- and, somewhere along the line, Mikey had made it his duty to see that Splinter was moved properly. He'd go slowly, careful that no sudden move would jar Splinter's arthritic back; with the bent, tattered whiskers brushing his shoulder and the ragged breathing close to his chest. Just as the sensei had once carried him, Mikey had made it his duty to carry Splinter.   
  
Even up to the moment he'd carried him -- wrapped carefully and lovingly in the best quilt they owned -- to the pyre they'd built in the farm's back pasture. That had been this morning; but Mikey still felt the fragile, precious weight in his arms. Drawing his knees up to his chest, he wondered if he always would.  
  
He let his mind wander back over the years, to the day he'd first realized that Splinter could no longer lift him.  
  
  
*** ***   
  
"What is wrong, Michaelangelo?" Splinter's black eyes shone with concern.  
  
Mikey hastily wiped his face with the back of his eight-year-old hand. "Nothing, sensei." He sniffed.  
  
"Michaelangelo . . ." Splinter's whiskers twitched. "A ninja who decieves himself and those close to him . . . "  
  
"Becomes his own worst enemy." Mike finished dutifully. Then he sighed. "It's just that . . . your back hurts sometimes now, and I'm getting too big for you. And," his voice grew small, "You can't carry me anymore."  
  
Splinter nodded. Then, wordlessly, he knelt down and enveloped his smallest son in a hug. "Yes, my son. It is true that I can no longer carry you." The hug tightened. "But my heart shall always be strong enough to lift yours."  
  
  
*** ***  
  
Mikey brushed at his tears. "What about now, Master Splinter?" He asked quietly. "Now who's going to lift my heart?" Another tuft of straw fluttered to its doom -- but then a sudden warm updraft caught it and sailed it up and out over the barnyard.   
  
Suddenly fascinated, Mike grabbed another scrap of straw and dropped it experimentally. The same current scooped up that bit, too. A second and third try produced the same results, and as Mikey prepared his fourth test he though suddenly of something Splinter had said to him, only a few weeks earlier.  
  
He'd just finished settling Splinter into his chair, making sure his father was warm enough and comfortable, when the rat suddenly sat up -- a lot straighter than usual.  
  
"Michaelangelo." He'd smiled then, a tired smile full of years. "My youngest . . . my trickster."  
  
"Sensei?" He'd been concerned . . . sometimes Splinter's mind would wander for hours, touching on one subject or another with no real coherence. Mikey was always a little afraid that this time, Splinter wouldn't come back.  
  
But the old rat had just leaned back in the chair and beckoned him closer. "Listen to me, Michaelangelo. These things must be said." Splinter's voice was hoarse, punctuated by long silences as he caught his breath. His dark eyes shone with a strange intensity. "Your youth, your laughter, your ability to see the world with innocent eyes . . . these are your gifts. Do not lose them, Michaelangelo . . . for when all else has failed you, these gifts will lift your spirit, and give strength -- both to you, and to your brothers. Remember this . . . when I am gone. No matter what else may happen . . . do not lose your joy." Splinter lay his thin, brittle hand on Michaelangelo's. "Be well, my son."  
  
Mike had nodded, placed his free hand on top of Splinter's -- and filed the words away in the back of his mind.  
  
Until now. As yet another tuft of straw wafted out on the updraft, Mikey turned his eyes Eastward -- to the pale, lovely disk of the rising moon.   
  
"Okay." He said quietly. "Okay, sensai. I've got the message."  
  
The sun died and the moon rose; one bit of straw hit the ground fast, another sailed for a while on a current of air. People were born and stumbled through life towards death, traveling on currents of laughter and tears.  
  
*And sometimes,* Mike decided as he rose, *sometimes you get lucky, just when things seem worst."   
  
Sometimes, if you were lucky, you hit an updraft.  
  
Mikey glanced towards the house, and he sighed softly. He wasn't the only one in mourning. And Splinter hadn't just given him words of comfort -- he'd given Mikey a duty.  
  
Mikey had hit his updraft. Now, it was time to *be* an updraft -- for his brothers . . . .  
  
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*** Continued in Chapter Two *** 


	2. Fragments: Donatello

******  
Fragments: Donatello  
******  
  
Donnie half- frowned as he turned a rusted piece of pipe over in his hands. "Well, *this* might turn out to be a problem." The innards of the kitchen sink were scattered across the kitchen table, grouped in a haphazard system of organization that could only have been devised by one man.  
  
Casey Jones.  
  
Donnie shook his head. Casey had an awful habit of ripping the guts out of any non-functioning system (whether a truck engine or a kitchen sink) and then forgetting what order everything went back together in. It had made for some pretty interesting times . . . back in the old days. Donatello set aside the rusty pipe and picked up a twisted length of electrical wire. *Now where did that come from?*   
  
Fragments of pipe and truck engine. Like the fragments of his friendship with Casey Jones. Donatello turned the wire over in his hands, then set it back down and reached for his wrenches. It looked like the sink could be salvaged.  
  
He wondered if there was any hope for the friendship.  
  
*** ***  
"No way, Atomic Mouth! Gilligan was her main man. They'd be married and have like six kids by now!!"  
*** ***  
  
  
"Huh?" Donnie half-turned -- but it was his own voice he'd heard, echoing back from the past.  
  
  
*** ***  
"Not a chance, Barfaroni!" Casey buried his head under the truck's rusted hood.  
  
"Camel face!"  
  
"Dome Head!"  
*** ***  
  
  
Donatello lifted his hand briefly to his head, sighing with regret. Then he worked his way under the kitchen sink.  
  
He'd missed Casey -- still missed him, for that matter. The quick-tempered,long-haired hockey player had (for a while, at least) been his closest friend. True, their personalities were almost completely opposite -- the brash, exuberant Casey versus Donnie's quieter, more studious temperament -- but they both had a knack for fixing things, or trying to fix them.  
  
Donnie brushed a drop of water from the plumbing out of his eye. He'd always been the one to fix things -- around the lair, in April's apartment . . . and in his brother's lives. If Leo needed advice after a fight with Raph, he'd turn to Donatello for advice. When Mikey got frustrated over a story that wouldn't turn out right, Donnie was the beta reader. And if Raph grew angry to the point of doing something stupid . . .  
  
  
** Tomorrow leave the windows open   
** As fear grows please hold me in your arms   
** Won't you help me if you can to shake this anger   
** I need your gentle hands to keep me calm   
  
*** ***  
  
"Come on, Raph. This isn't worth it . . ."  
  
"Yeah? Wanna bet?"  
  
"Raph! Come on . . . would you calm down?!"  
  
"Not a chance."  
  
"Raphael!"  
  
*** ***  
  
Well, truth be told Donnie couldn't always keep Raph from doing something stupid. But he liked to think that he helped -- at least a little. Donatello liked to believe that his small repairs somehow made a difference.  
  
*This sink, for instance.* If he could get it working it would be one less thing for Casey to do when Summer rolled around.  
  
That brought his thoughts back to his old friend -- and what Mikey had told them about his nocturnal visit to the Jones apartment. Donatello chuckled. A daughter. He tried to picture Casey Jones walking the floor with a baby, or -- now *here* was a mental image -- changing a diaper.  
  
"Casey at a tea party." He snickered, then rolled his eyes. "Who am I kiddin'? She's *Casey's* daughter -- kid probably plays peewee football."  
  
He tapped his wrench absently against one of the pipes, suddenly remembering a proverb Splinter had taught him a long time ago.  
  
*The greatest bridge rests upon a single pebble.*  
  
Translation for the proverb-challenged: big things have to start somewhere.  
  
Donatello slid out from under the sink. Splinter was gone -- much as he hated to think about it -- and that meant that a lot of things were open for discussion again. Like the role the four of them were going to play in the lives of April, Casey and their daughter.  
  
He stood and began sifting through the pipe fragments on the kitchen table. He'd known for almost a year that Splinter was dying, and in a way he'd already mourned for him. He'd had time to come to terms with the idea of Splinter not being there.  
  
Donatello was ready to start picking up the pieces.   
  
A soft, muted thump from the room above him caught his attention, and he glanced up. Not everyone was dealing as well as he was with Splinter's death.   
  
Donatello picked up another scrap of pipe. He just hoped the sink was the worst thing he'd have to fix today . . . .  
  
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*** Continued in Chapter Three *** 


	3. Scars: Raphael

******  
Scars: Raphael  
******  
  
Nothing on the farm had changed, and the bathroom was no exception. It was the exact same room where, over a decade earlier,Leo had worried over Raph and Splinter while Raphael had struggled back to life.  
  
And now here he was. Raph ran his fingers along the chipped edge of the enameled tub, letting his mind wander. He'd wanted a place to be alone, to think about his father and his future; and the bathroom was as good a place as any. He'd come up here almost without thinking -- as if he'd been drawn by memory.   
  
But in reality he barely remembered those days. They were nothing but a blur of pain and water and blood, mixed with the faint ghost of April's voice whispering "He'll be all right." Nothing solid remained of all he'd been through except a thin, rough-edged scar -- more jagged than most of the scars he carried -- where a wicked fragment of April's skylight had slashed his forearm.  
  
Raphael half-laughed. His shell was criss-crossed with grooved scars, his arms marked with many more. Scars were what he used to remember what he'd been through. And scars were what he'd come up here to think about . . .   
  
*** ***  
  
The four of them had settled into their roles early on. Michaelangelo was the youngest, the baby of the family -- even though, really, they were all the same age. Mikey was smaller than the other turtles, and Splinter had set Mike's "birthday" later in the year than anyone else's; so naturally they'd begun thinking of Mike as the youngest brother.  
  
Donatello was the student, the inquisitive one, the "gifted" brother who could fix and invent things. Donnie was the one you went to for advice and help with your studies; the quiet thinker of the family.  
  
Leonardo, of course, was the oldest, the natural leader and the most serious martial artist. He was the one who listened attentively when Splinter was talking, who always finished his chores and worked hardest on his katas. Leo was the favored son.  
  
And, for lack of a better role, Raphael had become the rebel.   
  
He couldn't match Michaelangelo's cheerful good humor or Donatello's brilliance -- and though he was better at sparring than Leo, the long complex sequences of katas grated on Raph's impatient soul. It hadn't taken very long before he discovered that he couldn't outdo any of his brothers on their own terms. Instead he'd begun insisting on living life on *his* terms. His way or the high way. And if Splinter, his brothers and the rest of the world didn't like it, that was their tough luck.  
  
Looking back he supposed he'd done it in a bid for attention -- Donnie'd mentioned something once about middle children rebelling in an effort to get their parents to notice them.  
  
And Splinter had noticed him, all right -- but somehow it never seemed to be a good thing. Every stupid thing he'd done to act out had been met with a reprimand; his small acts of stubborn rebellion were answered with a frustrated shake of the head; and more than once growing up he'd caught Splinter watching him with a sad, puzzled, what-am-I-going-to-do-with-him look. Of course, he'd done some things right -- and they'd been met with praise and pride -- but it had always been the wrong things that Raphael remembered. That puzzled look had stuck in his memory, and so had all the insinuations that went with it. He knew he wasn't much of a son.  
  
And he wasn't really sure that Splinter loved him. He knew *he'd* never be able to love someone as boneheaded, hot-tempered and difficult as himself. Through his childhood, his adolescence and even his adulthood, that ugly, sneaking little thought was always in the back of his mind.  
  
*Your father doesn't love you.*  
  
He'd tried to shake it, but had never quite succeeded. It had always been there, joined from time to time by another:  
  
*Why should he? He's got Leo.*  
  
No wonder he'd never had much luck getting along with Leonardo. In Raph's mind, Leo was everything he wasn't -- disciplined, obedient, calm.  
  
Loved.  
  
Raphael had gone through life with that bladelike thought. Every time Leo did something right, the knife in his heart twisted again;until finally his heart was as scarred as his shell and anger was second nature to him. He'd always believed that things would always be that way.  
  
Until four days ago.  
  
*** ***  
  
Splinter was dying, and all of them knew it. Of course, he'd been dying for years now; his back fused by arthritis, his vision dimmed by cataracts and his breathing made more and more shallow by a long succession of respiratory problems.  
  
But this was different. The last day was coming, and coming soon. Mikey never left Splinter's side, except for when Donatello dragged him to bed and made him lie down, or pulled him into the kitchen and force-fed him. Leonardo spent long hours alone, practicing or staring into space. Donatello went about in his quiet way, seeing to it that his youngest and oldest brothers slept and ate, that their home was clean and that everyone was cared for.  
  
And Raphael tried not to think of what would happen when Splinter was not there. Even if he wasn't sure that Splinter loved him, Raphael knew that he loved Splinter -- as deeply as a son could. The thought of the rat's death was enough to make him want to scream, to sob, to withdraw into his shell and never, ever come back out. He couldn't think about it head-on -- he'd go mad. So he tried not to think about it at all.  
  
  
** I never thought I'd lose   
** I only thought I'd win   
** I never dreamed I'd feel   
** This fire beneath my skin   
  
  
"Raph." Michaelangelo, his usually youthful face made old by sorrow and lack of sleep, appeared in the doorway of Splinter's room. "*He* wants you."  
  
Unprepared, Raph opened his mouth to protest -- then closed it again. Whatever last lecture he was in for, he could take it. He followed Mikey into a dim, warm bedroom that smelled faintly of incense and tea, the walls hung with rice-paper scrolls depicting scenes of Japan. Raphael crossed to stand by Splinter's bed, not meeting the rat's eyes. He was afraid if he did he'd burst into tears.  
  
Splinter stirred himself from the half-sleep that had become his days, gesturing weakly at Mikey. "Michaelangelo . . . please . . . leave us."  
  
"What?" His forehead creased into a frown of protest. "But, Master Splinter . . . "  
  
"Please, my son. I must . . . speak . . . to your brother. Alone."  
  
Michaelangelo glanced uncertainly at Raph, then bowed. "All right, sensai."  
  
Raphael watched his brother's retreating back until the door swung shut. Then he heard Splinter say, "Raphael. Sit here . . . by me."  
  
How many memorable lectures had been prefaced with *those* words? Raph complied, venturing a glance at Splinter's face. The old rat's eyes shone with far more awareness than they'd held lately. He searched Raph's face silently -- whether searching for words or gathering strength, Raphael couldn't be sure. But after a long moment, Splinter began to speak.  
  
"Raphael." The one word seemed to take a lot out of Splinter, and he paused. His breathing was painfully audible in the still room. "Look at me."  
  
Raph lifted his eyes back up from studying the rug, his brown eyes meeting Splinter's jet-black ones. Something shone there -- an emotion so strong and deep it was almost alien. Fear, joy, pride, pain? Raphael wasn't really sure which emotion it was.  
  
Splinter raised a thin, fragile hand to Raph's face. His touch was as light as a wisp of steam, fingertips trembling with exertion from the simple task of lifting his hand. "My son." Splinter's voice was charged with the same undefinable emotion that lit his eyes. There was another long, expectant pause. Then the rat's hand dropped to the bed, and with as deep a breath as he could manage, Splinter began speaking.  
  
"You have always been a . . . puzzle . . . to me, Raphael. Many times I have wondered why you were so unlike your brothers." A pause.  
  
*Here it comes.* Raph braced himself for one last lecture on self-discipline.  
  
"My master Yoshi . . . had a saying . . . that the sight of the dying sees all that the living cannot view. And *I* see now . . ." Splinter drew in a ragged breath, "That you saw my puzzlement, and mistook it . . . for something else. I allowed you . . . to see what only I should have known. And I realize now . . . that in doing this . . . I have wounded you."  
  
Raph met Splinter's eyes in confusion. *What?*  
  
The black eyes closed momentarily, as if gathering strength. Then Splinter continued. "In my eyes you have seen disappointment and confusion . . . and you believed that I was disappointed in *you*. That I was confused by *your* failure. But I tell you now . . ." Another breath, this one considerably more ragged. "That it was my own failure which so confused me . . . with which I was disappointed. I could not understand . . . why my training . . . failed to make you like your brothers." The eyes flicked open. "Like . . . Leonardo."  
  
Raph opened his mouth to form some sort of protest -- but a weak shake of Splinter's head silenced him before he spoke.  
  
"What I say . . . must be said, Raphael. While there is yet time." Splinter's eyes caught Raph's. "Only now . . . in my dying . . . do I see how unfair I was to you, my son. You are not . . . your brother. That I ever tried to make you into him . . . is my shame." The frail hand reached out for his. "Too often in your young life . . . you saw disappointment in my eyes . . . when you should have seen pride. For I should have been proud . . . of you. I should have been proud from the first."  
  
Raphael felt hot tears spring up in his eyes. He could recognize the look in Splinter's eyes now.   
  
Regret. And pride.  
  
  
And love.  
  
Splinter nodded weakly at the recognition that was welling up in Raphael's face. "I have little time left in this world, Raphael. But I hope . . . that when I am gone . . . that you will remember what I am about to say. I hope that it will . . . replace . . . all the scars I have caused you." Splinter's free hand again lifted to Raphael's face.  
  
"I love you, my son. I am proud of you. Not for what you have accomplished . . . not because you are like your brothers . . . only because . . ." A pair of tears carved wet paths in Splinter's fur. "You are my son."  
  
Raph raised his hand to cover Splinter's, as if by doing so he could catch and hold the fragile gift he'd just been given.  
  
** I can't believe you love me   
** I never thought you'd come   
** I guess I misjudged love   
** Between a father and his son  
  
The tears won him over; and for the first and only time in his life, Raphael wept in his father's arms.  
  
*** ***   
A drop of moisture that hadn't come from the tub faucet hit Raphael's arm -- just left of the scar. Raph brushed it away with his thumb, then traced the ragged path the skylight had carved in his forearm. He bore a lot of scars; some visible, some not-so-visible. Each scar a token of some pain he'd endured.  
  
But it was time his scars stopped ruling his life -- time he stopped keeping score.   
  
In his mind's eye, Raphael called up every hurtful look he could remember in Splinter's eyes, every kata he'd ever failed, every lecture he'd ever received.  
  
His wandering eyes caught a red-brown smudge on the side of the tub. Raph leaned closer, ran his thumb over the smudge. Blood. Maybe even his blood, from over a decade ago.  
  
Raph ran through his memories one more time -- and then, one by one, he replaced them with Splinter's words. *I love you, my son. I am proud of you.*  
  
He rubbed the side of the bathtub vigorously, until the smudge disappeared; then he brushed his eyes with the back of his hand.  
  
"Thanks, Splinter." He mumbled. "Thank you . . . . Now I know."  
  
A lound *creak* from the hallway caught Raphael's attention, and without even looking he knew who was out there.  
  
Leonardo . . .   
  
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*** Continued in Chapter Four *** 


	4. Vigils: Leonardo

******  
Vigils: Leonardo  
******  
  
Leo leaned against the wall outside the bathroom, studying the photographs and drawning on the opposite wall. Photos of April as a gap-toothed little girl with scabbed knees; April as a teenager, hair pulled back in an unruly ponytail; April's parents as a young couple, and again as senior citizens. Then there were photos taken many years later -- April and Casey together on the porch swing; a very pregnant April, highlighted against an open window as she gazed out over the farm; another shot of the porch swing, this time Casey with a newborn nestled fast asleep on his chest. After that the wall was given over to shots of April and Casey with their daughter -- Monet. Leo examined the most recent photo of the girl. She was dark-haired and pretty, bearing a definite resemblance to April as a child; but something in the set of her jaw reminded Leonardo of Casey.  
  
Leo's gaze slid back past the photos, to the center of the wall where someone -- probably April -- had moved the photographs to either side. A group of four colored-pencil drawings in matching frames hung there -- the drawings April had made so long ago. The top drawing in the cross-shaped formation was of Donatello and Casey, leaning over the engine of the battered pickup truck they'd repaired ten years ago. Clockwise from that was one of Mikey, grinning and holding up a pizza box. At the bottom was a simple drawing of Raphael, leaning moodily over the edge of an apartment rooftop.  
  
The last drawing was of him, sprawled tiredly in an old wooden chair with one leg extended and his chin resting on his plastron. Leo straightened up, and the floor creaked beneath him as he stepped across the hallway. He reached out and tentatively touched the glass protecting the drawing. He remembered that, all right -- as clearly as if it was yesterday . . .  
  
*** ***  
  
Exhaustion gnawed at the corners of his mind, dulling his senses; but even exhaustion was overshadowed by worry for Splinter, and for the brother who floated only a few feet away -- hovering between life and death.  
  
He looked up only slightly when April crept in, as she always did at about that time of day. She knelt by the tub, scooped a few handfuls of water over Raphael's skin and ran her fingers gently over one of the worst bruises, then over the angry slash on Raph's right forearm. Then she stood again and turned to leave . . . but not before patting him gently on the shoulder and whispering, as she always did, "He'll be all right."  
  
*** ***  
  
*He'll be all right.* How he'd clung to those words, the only comfort April could think to offer him. There was nothing in the words to promise him that Splinter was alive, or that the Foot could be defeated; but they promised that Raphael would get well. And somehow Leo had known that if only Raph was all right, everything else would be okay.  
  
Because despite how he'd pushed Raph, prodded him,jabbed him with his words and his disapproving glares; despite all of that, Leonardo loved his brother. He hadn't really realized how much he did until Raphael had come plummeting through April's skylight, bleeding and groaning. As they'd fled April's burning apartment and the city, Leonardo had cradled Raph's head in his lap -- and silently begged him not to die. Not yet. Not before Leo got a chance to say *it*. And all through those long, terrible days when Leonardo had waited by Raph's side, he'd been gripped by an awful fear -- that Raphael would die before Leo could say it.  
  
Before he could tell Raphael he loved him.  
  
Raphael had not died; but somehow, when the urgency had gone, Leo had lost the courage to say what he'd wanted to say. Ten years had gone by, and Leo had still never said it out loud. Instead he'd gone on holding a long, quiet vigil -- only this time he wasn't waiting for Raphael to wake up. He was waiting for the right moment -- a moment that, so far, had never come.  
  
How many times had he almost said it? Once he'd even tried to blurt it out in the middle of a battle with the Foot. But -- Leo half-laughed as he let his hand drop -- he'd never managed to get the words out.  
  
Leonardo, the fearless leader, couldn't manage to say four little words.  
  
*Hesitation is the enemy of a ninja.* Splinter's voice whispered in his head. *It is a subtle and terrible opponent; and many who fall by its hand,*  
  
"Do not rise again." Leo finished. He turned and took a deep, calming breath. It was high time he ended this vigil he'd been holding.  
  
******  
  
Raphael turned his head as Leo entered the bathroom. "Hey."  
  
Leo nodded. "Hey." He sank onto the wooden chair that still stood by the bathroom door. "Thinking about Splinter?" He asked quietly.  
  
Raph stole a quick glance at Leo's face -- searching for a lecture in the making. But then his face softened. "Yeah." He looked back to the tub.  
  
They sat for a while in silence. After a while, Leonardo cleared his throat. "Raph . . ."  
  
But Raphael had also chosen that moment to speak. "He loved me."  
  
Leo blinked, startled by the sudden, matter-of-fact statement. "Huh?"  
  
"Splinter. He . . ." Raph took a deep breath. "He loved me." He chuckled and turned around to face Leo. "Ya think that wouldn't be that hard a concept, y'know? I mean, c'mon. Twenty-six years, I shoulda figured that one out by now. But . . ." Raphael shrugged. "I guess I kinda knew it before. But now . . . it's like for the first time in my life I really *know* it. He loved me." His eyes met Leo's.  
  
"He wasn't the only one." the words slipped out almost by themselves, and Leonardo slid out of the chair and onto the floor by Raphael. His eyes locked with his brother's. "I love you, Raph." A short pause. Then, he admitted sheepishly, "I've been trying to say that for years."  
  
Raph's jaw dropped for a moment. His eyes searched Leonardo's, saying everything that he couldn't find words for.  
  
And then Raphael reached out and pulled his brother into an embrace.  
  
  
** Things we never said come together   
** The hidden truth no longer haunting me   
** Tonight we touched on the things that were never spoken   
  
"I love ya back, Leo."  
  
  
** That kind of understanding sets me free . . . .  
  
*****************************************************************************************************************************  
*** Concluded in Chapter Five *** 


	5. Farewells: Conclusion

******  
Farewells: Conclusion  
******  
  
The large pillar candle in the center of the kitchen table cast flickering shadows around the room, fighting a valiant one-flame battle against the darkness of a late Spring night. The dim light reflected back from four pairs of eyes as the Turtles faced each other across the table. Each of the brothers had a smaller candle and a fireplace match in front of him, both unlit -- waiting for the right moment.   
  
The farewell they'd come up with came from no established religion -- or, at least, from no religion they were aware of. Like them, like the sensei they mourned, the ritual was one-of-a-kind.  
  
Leonardo started first, picking up the match. He looked to each of his brothers, then said quietly;  
  
"He watched over us." Leo held the long wooden match out to the candle flame until it came to life with a sputtering hiss. Then, carefully and lovingly, he transferred the flame to the candle in front of him. The room grew incrementally brighter.  
  
As Leo blew out his match, Michaelangelo picked his up and held it to the center candle. Then, lifing the fragment of fire towards himself, he said "He lifted our hearts."  
  
Donatello went next; he thought for a long moment before igniting his match. "He made us one family."  
  
Raphael's eyes met each of his brothers' in turn. Then, as he added his candle's light to the brightening room, he added the words that explained all they wanted to say.  
  
"He loved us."  
  
The single flame, joined by the four others, beat back the darkness in the room.   
  
And in the newfound brightness, four sons said their last goodbyes to the father that had given them life.  
  
  
** `Cause I never thought I'd lose   
** I only thought I'd win   
** I never dreamed I'd feel   
** This fire beneath my skin   
** I can't believe you love me   
** I never thought you'd come   
** I guess I misjudged love   
** Between a father and his sons   
  
  
******  
THE END   
(but please keep reading.   
There's a tiny little author's note at the bottom.)  
******  
  
  
  
**************************************************** THE LAST SONG *********************************************************  
****************************************************************************************************************************  
  
** Yesterday you came to lift me up   
** As light as straw and brittle as a bird   
** Today I weigh less than a shadow on the wall   
** Just one more whisper of a voice unheard   
  
** Tomorrow leave the windows open   
** As fear grows please hold me in your arms   
** Won't you help me if you can to shake this anger   
** I need your gentle hands to keep me calm   
  
** `Cause I never thought I'd lose   
** I only thought I'd win   
** I never dreamed I'd feel   
** This fire beneath my skin   
** I can't believe you love me   
** I never thought you'd come   
** I guess I misjudged love   
** Between a father and his son   
  
** Things we never said come together   
** The hidden truth no longer haunting me   
** Tonight we touched on the things that were never spoken   
** That kind of understanding sets me free   
  
** `Cause I never thought I'd lose   
** I only thought I'd win   
** I never dreamed I'd feel   
** This fire beneath my skin   
** I can't believe you love me   
** I never thought you'd come   
** I guess I misjudged love   
** Between a father and his son   
  
  
*****************************************************************************************************************************  
  
Okay, peeps, I need your help!! (Skybright is suddenly surrounded by a flock of sugary marshmallow chickens . . . .) No; no, that's not what I meant at all . . . .  
  
I'm really interested in continuing stories from the "Closed Doors and Open Windows" universe, but am in need of inspiration. Anyone have something they'd like to see in a future story? Any ideas you've always wanted a "future-fic" to explore? Send 'em along to me at  
  
skybright_daye@hotmail.com  
  
Any little plot bunnies you can spare will be very appreciated (and, if used, credited)! Thanx for reading . . .and Write On! -- Skybright Daye 


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